This could I paint my inward sight,
This were Our Lady of the Night;
She bears on her front's lucency
The starlight of her purity:
For as the white rays of that star
The union of all colours are,
She sums all the virtues that may be
In her sweet light of purity.
The mantle which she holds on high
Is the great mantle of the sky.
Think O sick toiler, when the night
Comes on thee, sad and infinite,
Think sometimes 'tis our own Lady
Spreads her blue mantle over thee,
And folds the earth a wearied thing,
Beneath its gentle shadowing;
Then rest a little; and in sleep
Forget to weep! Forget to weep!
~Francis Thompson
